Hi all this is my first fanfic, wig. You know the schtick, leave a fav or a follow if you want, idc. Thanks in advance ! I also know that both of the boys in here might be OOC but hey whatever. I'm just trying my hand at writing canon characters so sue me.
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from this movie, nor am I making any profit from writing for them.
Word Count: 3085
Characters: Christian Wolff, Braxton (?)
With his PanAmerica in tow, Christian Wolff was on his way to his new home. It was just shy of seven hours away from the previous one in Illinois. He'd simply mentioned doing home health duties for a frail, aging and dying father when asked about why he was moving out. This was why he always rented, never bought. Also why he always left the monthly rent in envelopes, cash, rather than doing direct deposit.
Justine had already set him up for his new home, life, and job. He still had to meet Braxton this week- he was sure that he'd understand why he moved so often. They were so used to it as children, that it has become second nature to Christian, making it no problem for him to do it. In fact, he looked forward to it, almost. He would go beyond insane if he were to stay in one place for more than a few years. The idea seemed so foreign to him. The near constant skipping of towns and cities was a comfort to him, almost.
Settling into the new place was tough at first. It was slightly smaller than the house in Illinois, but that was no problem. He simply found it particularly difficult to establish his routines in the new settings. For the first week, he opted to sleep in the Pan America, appreciating the familiarity of it. He found himself staring at where the Pollock used to be, thinking vaguely of Dana. He keeps tabs on her, ensuring her safety. He'd even asked his brother to keep an eye on her, for as long as he planned to stay near her.
Braxon. Christian's younger brother was more excited to see Christian than he was to see him. he reluctantly made an effort to establish a means of conversation and connection. He made sure to keep his phone calls few, brief, and untraced. Christian was unused to talking to anyone other than Justine over the phone, but supposed he had to simply get used to it. Baby steps, he convinced himself.
On the first day in the new home, after he ensured with Justine that everything was alright, he was told to relax. Recuperate. He obliged. He took this time to take a better look at his wounds from the shootout where he reunited with his brother. The limp, caused by the nasty shot to his thigh, was still painfully obvious. He'd have to mask that when he went for the interview for a job as an forensic accountant at a local firm. Blending in was key. The gunshot to his right shoulder pained him every time he moved his arm or shoulders, and the leg every time he placed weight on it.
He showered, watching blood trail down his tired body. The bleeding halted after a few minutes, and by that point, his shoulder, collarbone, and thigh were so sore, he had to turn the water off. The pressure of it against the wounds was only hurting him further. He stepped out, wincing as he lifted his left leg to step out of the shower. He stood for a few moments at the banister, looking at himself in the mirror. His reflection wasn't crystal clear, due to both the condensation on the surface of it, and his bad eyes. He supposed that the rest of him looked okay, though, minus the two gunshot wounds. He'd be fine, just fine.
Dressed in a tee shirt and sweats, as opposed to his shorts, Christian made his way to the bedroom. Not going any further than the threshold, he decided that he didn't like it. It would take some time to acquaint himself with it. The familiar, and therefore safe, dimensions of his Pan America were preferable to this. So, at 8:32 pm, he started up the F-150, making his way to the storage units holding his second home.
By the time he got there, it was nearing 9:15. Christian noticed, a bit anxiously, that it was nearing the hardest part of the night. The final step in his nightly routine- suffering through the sensory overload, followed by his medicine. He hated this. But the lessons his father had engraved in him so long ago still prevailed. He'd be weak if he didn't know his limits. He had to push himself to be strong. The knowledge that he left his strobe light and Bose speaker at the new house was eating at him; clawing out from the inside of his stomach and spreading it's claws to the rest of his body.
His breathing quickened minutely as he tried psyching himself up to not go back home. Convincing himself that he could go without his routine just this once was proving itself to be increasingly difficult. But bringing the lights and the music to the PanAm was simply not going to work. The routine meant that it stayed at whatever house he stayed at, not here. It simply wouldn't work any other way. It was as taboo as mixing personal and professional life. Stealing another glance at the clock, Christian saw that there was only eleven minutes before he had to play the music, start the lights, and bring out the wooden roller. These were the time he wished he could socialize with other people, that he could find someone to help him calm down. He would have considered Dana, but she had offered a mere "Bye, Chris" the las time she saw him in the beginnings of a breakdown.
He could always find music on his phone to blare, but it would not be the same. He was quickly regretting coming here. It was, though, better than the bedroom at the new house. He'd have to wean into it, just like he did as a child all those years ago. It was easier with Braxton, the comfort of his brother in the new and unfamiliar rooms giving Christian the courage to stay as well. He wouldn't like it at all, barely even coming to like any of the houses they'd move into until at least a few months. Of course, that's when they would move again, though. It was burning the candle at both ends to take so long to get used to a household, only to have to move out once he was comfortable with the surroundings.
This time, he was on his own again. He'd moved multiple times since he got out of Leavenworth, getting used to the process again. The first few weeks were always the worst. Christian would be on edge constantly, all while still forcing himself to try and settle down and become familiar with everything. He didn't expect this whole process to be done within the day, though, hence his sitting in the PanAm. This was his only constant, giving him the comfort he needed. He sat heavily on the bed, running his hands through his hair. He didn't realize he began to rock back and forth until he was aware of the squeak of the bed springs.
While the sound was annoying, it was also something he could focus on. He didn't do well without routine and habit. This just be one of his limits. He didn't want to look at the clock, but his mind was screaming, ordering him to. With a surreptitious glance to it, he grimaced to see that there was only six minutes now until he would be starting everything at home. By this time, he would be making sure the speaker was on, ensuring that his phone was charged enough to play the vile music, that his strobe light was plugged in, and that his medicine bottle was sitting at the ready. Here, he didn't have any of those except the medicine. He knew he'd need it, if he couldn't have the music or the lights, he needed at least the meds.
They calmed him down. It wasn't an immediate relief, no. They didn't kick in until Christian was already pushed to his limits, exhausted and in a fitful state of half rest. Without them, though, he wasn't sure if he'd ever sleep. He didn't want to risk finding out. He laid back on the bed, sighing and pressing his hands into his eyes. He hated this, feeling like this. He felt so helpless. He didn't even look at the clock anymore, knowing it will only stress him out further. He didn't know how long he was lying down, only that it hadn't been long, before he sat back up. Pacing would be better, he thought, and stood, crossing the short distance to his arms room. To busy himself and destress, he started to check the barrels on his guns, checking that all safety locks were in place, and even considered going to the lengths of cleaning them, but found they were already spotless. His habitual ways had made sure of that the last time he was in here.
With nothing that he could think to do, Christian sat back down, taking yet again another deep breath to calm down. He started rocking again, slow at first, but slowly picking up pace. He couldn't help but look at the clock this time, hoping to find that it was already past 10:01, but seeing the first number still at 9, he averted his gaze immediately, groaning aloud. He started to voice the beginnings of Solomon Grundy, slowly giving way to chanting. Head in his hands once more, he closed his eyes, fighting his increasingly rising anxiety.
Minutes passed by until some sound from outside of the trailer put Christian at alert. He was still rooted in his spot, and following a short succession of a few knocks on the door, it was already opening before Christian could stand to open it. His head snapped up, eyes frantic as he looked to the guest. Of all people, Christian didn't know why his brother came to visit, but he didn't get up to greet him. He didn't feel the need. He also felt like his heart might explode if he did.
"What is wrong with you?" Braxton asked, and Christian couldn't tell if there was disgust behind those words, or concern. Or curiosity.
Christian didn't reply. Just a shake of his head and a feeble hum, to give the impression he wasn't totally ignoring him. How did he even find him? If Christian could get over this hump, he'd ask. Taking into account Braxton's self claimed "I'm dangerous, too", it relieved Christian slightly that he didn't have to get up and hide the arms room. He had a feeling Braxton wouldn't go snooping in his drawers, at least, but the guns might be played with. Braxton was always into that stuff. Moreso than Christian, anyways. He was almost expecting him to investigate them now. He'd prefer him to, actually, instead of scrutinizing him. He felt as if he were under a microscope, leaving him feeling vulnerable, embarrassed, and disgusted in himself. Braxon would never get like this, he was only making a fool of himself.
"Come on, man, what can I do to help?" Braxton was now moving away, opening and closing the cabinets above the sink. When he couldn't find anything there, he turned to his left, facing the window in the door to the arms room. That's when he froze, and Christian even heard him mutter a "holy shit". He didn't linger long at the room, though, turning back to his brother, his gaze expectant. "Are you deaf?" he crossed the floor, crouching in front of Christian. He reached out, hands on his older brother's legs to stop him from rocking. Christian's hands flew to Braxton's, prying them off immediately. Braxton's lips formed a snarl, going right back where they were, successfully slowing his rocking. "Don't you do that to me. No, you don't get to do that to me. Look at me. I said, fucking *look at me."*
Christian finally met his brother's gaze, only holding it for a few moments before looking elsewhere. Maintaining eye contact was not his strong suit. He knew Braxton was aware of the fact, but still, Braxton was trying to help. He reached out, grasping Christian's jaw and forcing him to look down to him. He kept his grip on Christian's jaw until he was sure he wouldn't try to turn away again. "What. Can. I. Do," Braxton ground out, and Christian shook his head. "Nothing," he forced out. "I'm just anxious. I'll be fine. Don't touch me." Yet, he didn't try to squirm away from Braxton's hands, still steadying his legs.
Then, it seemed to hit the younger of the two at once. His forehead relaxed, eyes widening. "Shit," was all he said before standing up, looking around the floor. He didn't find what he was looking for, and ran out of the Pan America. Christian found himself already wanting him back- his physical touch on his legs and jaw was not pleasant, but it was enough to subsitute the wooden roller for his routine. The way he was demanding that he look at him was enough to be the music from his routine. He needed Braxton back. He didn't have to look at the clock now that he had something to match his routine. It wasn't the real thing, and not something Christian could rely on, but in this desperate moment of need, it was just enough.
Christian didn't even have to get up and go find his brother, Braxton returned in a hurry, hastily unzipping a duffel bag. Hearing the familiar rattle of a pill bottle, Christian eagerly reached out for the duffle bag. His brother gave him what he was after without having to ask or be told. He gave a sigh of relief when Christian opened it, tapping the bottle until one fell out into his open palm. Before he took it, he had to look at the clock. His hand stopped its path to his mouth, his eyes narrowing.
"What's wrong?"
Christian shook his head. "Nothing," he replied, allowing himself now to take the pill once the clock showed the right time. He'd gone through his routine in an unconventional way, but made it through regardless. Braxton laid down on the bed, careful to keep room between himself and his brother. "What was that about?" he asked the ceiling, knowing Christian wouldn't turn to face him. "Why didn't you have your medicine on you? More importantly, why aren't you at home? You know, where you're supposed to sleep, instead of in a trailer inside a storage facility?"
"It's perfectly comfortable, and even preferable to any house," Christian started, stating the facts pointedly. Now he leaned back until he was supine, but squirming away from Braxton so that there was ample space between them. "I was getting anxious, that's all. You are aware I don't do great without routines."
"Yeah, but you're also Rain Man, you should have remembered to bring your medicine in with you. You left it in the truck. Which, by the way, I had to memorize the license plate of to even know where you are. You said we could meet last week. Sorry to be an overbearing sibling, but when you don't reach out, a guy gets worried."
"No, it's not the medicine. I've got a thing I do at the house, something I don't like doing anywhere else. But the new house is so new that I don't like it yet, I wanted to sleep here for a few nights. And yes, that is overbearing. Also very creepy. I told you I would reach out. I planned to. I just needed a few more days."
"Whatever. Are you going to be able to sleep, then?"
Christian sat up, swinging long legs over the side of the bed. "Not with you here." The motion of just sitting up was making him slightly light headed. On any other day, or any other hour of the day, he'd be fine, but after his moments of weakness, it left him tired, both mentally and physically. He could feel a veil of sweat on his forehead, and before it could be noticed, he wanted his brother gone. "You found me, congratulations, but I'm not going to sleep with you still here. If it makes you feel better, you can call me tomorrow."
Braxton pushed himself up and off the bed, regarding him with narrowed eyes. "I came over here to make sure your overall health was okay after you got shot, and you're telling me to fuck off?" He crossed his arms, his glare unwavering. "No. I know you don't like getting close to people, or even talking to them, but when someone's looking out for you, sometimes you just gotta take it. Get some rest, I'll be out here." Passing his brother, he rested a hand on his shoulder, shaking it lightly and patting it in moral support before he went to the uncomfortably small bench in the kitchenette. He had to concentrate on not frowning at the way Christian's shoulder and entire upper body tensed.
He had to focus on not frowning when he heard an anguished, wordless groan come from the bedroom when Christian laid down. Had to focus on not entering the bedroom when he could hear pacing. Had to focus on not getting up to check on him when he could hear the bed springs squeaking in a rhythm. Had to focus on staying put when he could hear Christian's chanting start up again. He could himself mouthing along with him until it stopped. Braxton almost didn't get up in fear that he didn't want him near him, but a fear that something was wrong was getting to him. Braxton stood up and pushed back the sliding divider that acted as a door to the bedroom, only to find Christian on the edge of the bed. He was asleep, worn himself out from pacing, rocking, talking. His head was being held up by his palms, and elbows digging into his knees. He looked extremely uncomfortable, even sweating, probably from the anxiety of the stimuli the new house offered to him. Braxton had half a mind to gently lay Christian down on the bed and cover him with a blanket, but thought better of it. The man would wake to a pen dropping. So his younger brother smiled, turned around, and laid sentry on the petite couch, watching over him.